Chapter 9: Slow Ride
The click of the lock was soft, but Zayn heard it through the hum of the refrigerator. He’d been sitting at the small table, rolling a blunt over and over between his fingers, not lighting it. Rico had called. A warehouse fight. Two nights from now. The money was good, too good. The kind of good that meant someone was supposed to get hurt bad. Zayn had grunted into the phone, a non-committal sound, and hung up.
Eli slipped in, a gust of cold city air clinging to his wool coat. He unwound his scarf, his movements slow with the deep tiredness that came from a day of dealing with people. He hung his coat on the single hook by the door, his library bag dropping to the floor with a thud of books. He looked at Zayn, at the unlit blunt, at the tension corded in his shoulders.
“Hey,” Eli said, his voice a quiet balm in the stagnant room.
“Hey.” Zayn finally lit the blunt, the flare of the match illuminating the grim set of his mouth for a second. He took a drag, held it, offered it.
Eli crossed the room, took it from his fingers. Their hands brushed. Eli’s were cold. He smoked, exhaling toward the ceiling, his eyes never leaving Zayn’s face. “Rico called.”
It wasn’t a question. Zayn nodded, once. “Two days. Big payout.”
Eli didn’t ask how big. He just passed the blunt back and started unbuttoning his sweater. He pulled it over his head, revealing a soft, faded t-shirt beneath. He toed off his shoes. He was moving into their space, the one they built anew every day, brick by brick. He walked to the futon, sat on the edge, and patted the space beside him.
Zayn went. He sat, the springs complaining. He passed the blunt. Eli took another hit, then leaned over and stubbed it out in the ashtray on the floor. The room was quiet again, the only light the flickering bulb over the kitchen sink, casting their long shadows on the wall.
Eli turned to him, his knee pressing against Zayn’s thigh. He reached out, his fingers tracing the fresh bruise blooming on Zayn’s cheekbone from the last fight. “You’re already gone,” Eli whispered. “You’re already in that ring.”
Zayn caught his wrist, held it. “I’m right here.”
“Prove it.” Eli’s voice was firm, a thread of steel in the softness. “Be here. With me. All of you.”
He understood. This was the ritual. The reclamation. Not the frantic, angry coupling of the night before, but something deliberate. A mooring.
Eli stood, pulling his t-shirt off. He undid his trousers, let them pool at his feet. He stood naked in the dim light, unselfconscious, beautiful in his slightness. The repaired pajama pants lay folded on the crate. He knelt on the futon, straddling Zayn’s lap, not quite touching. His hands went to Zayn’s shirt, pushing it up his torso. Zayn raised his arms, let him pull it off.
Skin met skin. Eli’s was cool, Zayn’s was furnace-hot. Eli settled his weight slowly, his palms flat on Zayn’s chest, feeling the hard muscle, the drumbeat of his heart. He leaned down, his lips a breath away from Zayn’s. “You gave me everything, baby. Let me give this back.”
Then he sank down.
There was no frantic push. Eli took him inside with a slow, devastating deliberation. Zayn gasped, his head thudding back against the wall. He was so fucking tight, hot and wet and clinging. Eli seated himself fully, taking every inch until Zayn was buried to the hilt, their bodies locked. He paused, letting them both feel the full, breathtaking stretch.
“Jesus Christ,” Zayn breathed, his hands flying to Eli’s hips.
Eli began to move. Not a bounce, but a deep, rolling grind of his pelvis. A lazy, sensual figure-eight that made Zayn see stars. Each rotation dragged Zayn’s cock against a place inside him that made his breath hitch. The wet heat of him clenched and released, a slow, rhythmic milking. Zayn could only watch, mesmerized, as Eli rode him, his head tipped back, his blond curls catching the faint light, his slender body moving with a grace that was almost painful.
“That’s it,” Zayn groaned, his thumbs stroking the soft skin of Eli’s inner thighs. “Fuck, you feel like heaven. Taking my cock so perfect.”
Eli leaned forward, bracing himself on Zayn’s chest. He changed the angle, sinking deeper, and Zayn saw his lips part in a silent cry. The pace remained achingly slow, each rise and fall a deep, full-stroke torture. Pre-cum leaked from Zayn’s tip, slicking the way, the filthy, wet sounds of their joining filling the quiet room.
“Look at me,” Zayn demanded, his voice rough.
Eli’s eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, found his. There was no shame there, only a fierce, open want. He was giving Zayn this—the visual, the feel, the utter control—and in doing so, he was taking all of Zayn’s scattered pieces and pulling them back into the orbit of his body.
“You own me,” Zayn choked out, the confession torn from him. “This fucking cock is yours. You hear me? It’s only yours.”
A smile, small and triumphant, touched Eli’s lips. He rose up until just the head was nestled inside him, then sank down again in one fluid, breathtaking drop. Zayn’s control snapped.
He gripped Eli’s hips and flipped them, a tangle of limbs and gasped laughter. Now Zayn was on top, caged between Eli’s spread thighs, pressing him into the worn cushions. Eli’s favorite. Missionary. Where he could see Zayn’s face.
Zayn didn’t pull out. He stayed buried, leaning down to crush Eli’s mouth in a searing kiss. He could taste the weed, the ghost of his own come from the morning, the unique flavor of Eli. He kissed him until they were both breathless.
“Hold on to me,” Zayn muttered against his lips.
Eli’s legs wrapped around Zayn’s waist, his arms circling his neck. Zayn began to move. This was different. Deeper, more urgent. He fucked into him with long, powerful drives of his hips, each thrust punching a soft “uhn” from Eli’s throat. The futon slammed against the wall with a rhythmic thud. Zayn watched every flicker of pleasure on Eli’s face—the fluttering eyelids, the bitten lip, the way his brow smoothed out as he gave himself over completely.
“You love this, don’t you?” Zayn gritted out, his sweat dripping onto Eli’s chest. “You love getting fucked deep by your man. This pretty hole was made for me.”
“Yes,” Eli gasped, his nails raking down Zayn’s back. “Only you. Zayn, only you.”
Zayn pistoned into him, the pace punishing, precise. He was chasing something, trying to outrun the image of the warehouse, Rico’s voice, the future money under the floor. He found his anchor in Eli’s body, in the way it yielded and clutched at him, in the broken, filthy words tumbling from Eli’s mouth.
“I’m close, I’m so close, don’t stop, please don’t stop fucking me…”
Zayn reached between them, his fingers finding Eli’s hard, leaking cock. He fisted it, stroking in time with his brutal thrusts. It was too much. Eli shattered. His back arched off the futon, a raw, wordless cry tearing from his throat as he came, his spend hot and slick between their grinding stomachs. The violent clenching of his channel tipped Zayn over the edge. He drove in one last, deep time, burying himself to the root as his own orgasm ripped through him, spilling into Eli’s clutching heat in long, pulsing jets.
He collapsed, a dead weight, but caught himself on his elbows at the last second. He stayed inside, both of them panting, slick with sweat and come. Zayn nuzzled into the sweat-damp hollow of Eli’s throat, breathing him in.
They didn’t speak. Minutes stretched. The cool air raised goosebumps on their heated skin. Zayn softened, slipped out. He rolled to the side, pulling Eli with him, keeping him close.
His heartbeat had just begun to slow when he felt Eli’s hand slide over his hip. A gentle tug.
“Again,” Eli murmured, his voice sleep-thick but insistent. “I want you behind me.”
Zayn’s body, spent and sated, still sparked back to life at the request. He nudged Eli onto his side, facing away, and spooned up behind him, his chest to Eli’s back. No space. He fitted himself against the curve of Eli’s body, his arm snaking under Eli’s head, the other wrapping around his waist. He was hard again, pressing against the cleft of Eli’s ass.
Eli reached back, guiding him. Zayn pushed inside slowly. It was a different fullness, deeper somehow. A possessive, enveloping heat. He began to move, not with the frantic pace of before, but with a deep, rolling rhythm that moved them both as one entity on the narrow futon.
Zayn buried his face in the back of Eli’s neck, inhaling the scent of his shampoo, their sex, his skin. He gripped Eli’s hip, his other hand splayed possessively over his smooth stomach, holding him close. Each thrust was a promise, a plea.
Eli reached back, his hand finding Zayn’s thigh, urging him on. He turned his head, his mouth finding the thick muscle of Zayn’s bicep where it pillowed him. He opened his mouth, sucking a bruise into the ink-strewn skin, his teeth scraping lightly. The mix of pain and pleasure, the raw marking, sent a jolt straight to Zayn’s core.
“Fuck, yes,” Zayn growled into his ear, his thrusts gaining intensity. “Mark me. Let everyone know who I fucking belong to.”
Eli moaned around the mouthful of skin, his body beginning to tremble. Zayn’s hand slid from his stomach down, wrapping around Eli’s reawakened cock. He stroked him, hard and fast, in perfect time with his own driving hips. The sounds were muffled, intimate: skin on skin, ragged breaths, the wet slide of Zayn’s length moving in and out of Eli’s well-used body.
It was faster this time, a cresting wave built from the first two rounds. Zayn felt the tight coil in his gut, familiar and urgent. Eli’s breathing hitched, his hips stuttering.
“Come with me,” Zayn begged, his voice raw. “Fill my hand, baby. I wanna feel you lose it while I’m inside you.”
The command, the filthy intimacy of it, was enough. Eli cried out, his body seizing as he came again, hot stripes painting Zayn’s fist and the futon below. The convulsions around Zayn’s cock tore his own orgasm from him, a deep, draining pulse that
left him shuddering and empty. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing syncing in the dark. Zayn stayed buried, his softening length still sheathed in Eli’s heat, his face pressed into the salt-damp skin of his shoulder.
He didn’t pull out. Instead, he held Eli tighter, his arm a iron band across his stomach. He felt Eli’s breathing deepen, grow slower. A profound lassitude was pulling Eli under, his body going boneless and heavy against Zayn’s chest. Zayn knew that state. It was a planet away from thought, a trust so absolute it was its own language.
Gently, he withdrew.
Eli made a soft, protesting noise in his throat, a sleepy mumble. “’S cold.”
“I know, baby. One second.” Zayn’s voice was a rough whisper. He shifted, looking down at the mess between Eli’s thighs and on the sheets. His own spend was leaking out of him, a white trail on Eli’s skin. A hot, possessive curl tightened in Zayn’s gut. It was a sick need, he knew that. Came from watching his old man mark everything as his territory in the worst ways. But this was different. This was making, not breaking.
“Look at that,” Zayn murmured, his own cock, spent and sensitive, twitching back to life at the sight. He ran his fingers through the warmth slicking Eli’s skin, gathering it. Eli just sighed, his eyes closed, his body pliant. He was long gone, moaning so softly, subsumed in a haze of pleasure and trust, just trusting Zayn to do as he pleased.
Zayn positioned himself again, nudging Eli’s thighs apart with a knee. He guided his own half-hard cock, smearing the gathered wetness at the tip. He pushed back inside, a slow, deliberate re-entry into that slick, clenching heat. Eli’s hole fluttered weakly around the intrusion, a subconscious, welcoming spasm.
“Watch,” Zayn breathed, though he wasn’t sure Eli could hear him. He wasn’t even sure he was speaking for Eli. He began to move, a shallow, filthy rocking of his hips. He kept his eyes locked on the point where their bodies joined, watching the slide of his own flesh, the way Eli’s body yielded to him, the faint glisten of his own release being fucked back inside.
The visual was a punch to his spine. It was crude, primal. His. Every ounce of what he had, every violent, tender, broken part of him, going right back into the only thing that made sense. Eli belonged to him, and this was the proof, wet and warm and sealed inside.
Eli’s soft, unintelligible moans were the only encouragement he needed. Zayn’s pace quickened, his thrusts growing harder, more focused. He was chasing his own climax again, spurred on by the sight and the feel and the utterly surrendered trust beneath him. His breath came in sharp grunts.
“Take it,” he growled, his voice shattered. “Take all of it back. It’s yours. It’s always fucking yours.”
That fluttering, clutching rhythm began again inside Eli, a helpless, physiological echo of pleasure even in his stupor. It milked Zayn, pulled the orgasm from his depths. He came with a broken shout, his body locking, pumping another hot, possessive claim deep into Eli’s core. He collapsed forward, his weight pressing Eli into the mattress, his face buried in the pillow beside Eli’s head.
He didn’t know how long they lay there. The cold began to seep in, raising gooseflesh. Eli was asleep, his breathing deep and even. Zayn carefully pulled out, a final, tender withdrawal. He grabbed a discarded t-shirt from the floor and cleaned them both roughly, tenderly. He pulled the blanket over Eli’s sleeping form.
The flickering light from the kitchen bulb caught the edge of the loose floorboard. The warehouse. Rico. The future in two days’ time hovered at the edge of the room, a silent spectator. Zayn lit the remainder of the blunt from earlier, the smoke harsh in his throat. He watched Eli sleep, the peaceful rise and fall of his chest. He had marked him, filled him, tried to brand this moment into permanence.
But the money under the floor waited. And the ring always called. Zayn exhaled smoke, the taste of Eli and weed and his own fear lingering on his tongue. He stubbed out the blunt. He slid under the blanket, wrapping himself around Eli’s warmth, holding the fight at bay for one more night.